Then I Stole You And You Stole Me
by JessWho
Summary: Spoilers for The Doctors Wife. "Everything about him is, was, will belong to her. She stole him with intent and this is, was, will be the proof that she couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't ever have to give him back." TARDIS Idris /Doctor.


_A/N: Oh, my Tardises, I've been writing this in bits and pieces since the episode aired. It'll probably be as difficult to read as it was to write, it gave me headaches, no seriously, my head wasn't made to hold all those tenses, but then neither was Idris's. It was supposed to be pure smut, but it got away from me and I couldn't get the ends to join. I like it anyway, well, the idea of it, reading it drives me up bloody the wall. "The you stole me. And I Stole You" is an Idris quote from The Doctor's Wife._

* * *

><p><strong>And Then You Stole Me. And I Stole You.<strong>

He is, was, will be her beautiful idiot and she has, had, will have this to treasure.

Contained within this soft, bigger-on-the-inside body, the sturdy porcelain of an old, long dead Sister cradling her and the Doctor; who she has, had, will have known long before his secrets over-shadow him, a comforting weight on top of her.

This body she has, had, will borrow is, was, will be so easily broken. Humans, such fragile things, such wondrous things. So many sensations. Nerve-ending bursting into life, withering and perishing, like she must, soon.

She is, was, will always be chased by and chasing time, but for a stolen moment it is, was, will slow for them.

An inhabitant is, was, will be all she amounts to in this body, but the thrill, those sparks, these emotions are hers to be kept locked in her ever-expanding heart.

Touch it is, was, will be a new concept to her. She could, can pinch and tickled and caressing. Hands have so many uses and each squeeze, every drag of blunted nails, pulling of hair causes the most delightful noises from her thief's lips.

A moan, that is, was, will be the sounds name. He moans against her lips, into her mouth, the taste and vibration of it on her tongue.

She kisses, kissed the tips of his fingers as they come home to her lips. One at a time she does, did capture them. Little finger. Ring finger. Middle finger. Index finger. Thumb. Every ridge of every finger-print tastes sweet, bitter, sour, salty, umami. He tastes like the past, present, future and her.

She doesn't, didn't know what she has, had, will have to do, but she can recall every touch to her console so she replicates that, copies him. Her fingers flutter on his lip just as his do hers, her hand stroking the inside of his thigh as his does, did to hers.

She will learn the purpose of this passion. She is pursuing the pulsing need that grows even as she dies. This was more than she was ever supposed to know, to feel, to want.

It is, was, will be such an ageless, primitive expression. The birds and the bees. Lovemaking. Sex. There are so many words inside her head that she longs to speak, to act upon. There is, was, will only be time to show him this once and she has to, had to, will make it count.

Everything about him is, was, will belong to her. She stole him with intent and this is, was, will be the proof that she couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't ever have to give him back.

She pinged, pings one of his braces to listen to his yelp, it is, was, will be as exciting as his moan. He looked, looks like he will reprimand her, but the thought vanishes when she twirls her neat little fingers messily around the strap of his elasticated braces to push it off his shoulder and in his eagerness to help he is, was, will be all elbows pointing in the air, banging into the side of her porcelain Sister.

Clothes are pushed aside enough for skin to touch and it is, was, will be marvellous, glorious to discover a new way to be with him. For all the stars he's seen, all the planets he has, had sculptured, her wandering Doctor is, was prudish. But this is, was, will be a different Doctor, because he's learning. He's learning to love with more than just his hearts. He's young and old, for all his years he is nothing but a teenager and it's wonderful being pulled into his enthusiastic kisses, his bold caresses, to be the clay in his hands.

The Doctor knew more than he was willing to give away. He could play the human body like a musical instrument, his touch light and reverent, never resting anywhere for long. It is, was, will be so very like him to stumble and flutter while concentrating so very hard. She can feel his mind ticking over, can catch the tail end of every chemical that coarses throughout his twin-hearts and she knows his thoughts exactly, which makes, made it easier to act upon his desires before he has, had, will have realized them himself.

His gasp reverberates, like crystal rain, down her temporary spine when she finally reaches for the zip of his beautifully tight trousers. The sound sparked, sparks a memory of all the times her circuits have fizzed and exploded as the Doctor flew her through the vortex and into pasture ancient and young, with the hand brake on.

This is, was, will be nice though, pleasant, dazzling. Her hand slides inside the many layers of fabric that hide and protect his strong, but slight form. She strokes the downy fluff and the ticklish skin of his abdomen before sliding lower without pausing for invitation, but it is, was, will be her back that arches, arched away from the solid cradle of a former Trans-dimensional ship and into the heavenly warmth of his chest covered with unstarched cotton. His jacket hung limp and tangled with one of his wine coloured braces, a half-forgotten knot at her elbow, the tweed scratching the sensitive underside of her arm.

She knows this touch, how this caress works and feels. She has, had, will have seen inside the colourful and inventive minds of her Pretty and Red. She knows how they derive pleasure from one another, how they planted the seed in Red's womb and how she gave it the beating echo of two hearts so her Thief would not be so lonely and angry and wild.

The Doctor kisses, kissed her with un-contained hunger. Their teeth clashing and their lips bruising under the torrent of his passion. His hands consciously moved up her thigh to the apex between them, tracing the hot, slippery folds of her sex with greedy fascination.

It has, had, will have been a long time for him, but she knows it hasn't been so long that he's forgotten how to give pleasure to a female, just long enough that it doesn't, didn't plague his body with an unsatisfied ache, like with the young strays he collects.

She clawed at his scalp, clutched at the dark silken strands of his floppy hair as his long and elegant fingers eased into her. It is, was, will be all she can do to pull oxygen into her lungs around the near unbearable sensation. It has, had, will have more meaning than any simple connection.

Two hands holding, fingers entwined. Bodies caught in a welcoming embrace. Lovers sharing a first, last and in-between kiss.

These are things she wants, wanted to indulge in, they are moments that hold their own emotional potency, but it is, was, will be this touch, this intimacy that he withholds from all the others he loves, had loved, will love, except her and the only water in the forest, and that, well, that means just about everything to her, to both of them.

He must know how much that means, meant to her to have the knowledge that he loves her, all of her, even the parts she only gets to borrow and burn up.

She has, had, will have this catalogued in her systems, a memory for the darkest of days when she is not, was not, will not be even a distant memory. When she's close to being as her Sisters are now. When he no longer blunders like a mad man; her Thief, along the ripples of the vortex. When she needs a moment like this to ease her endless path.

* * *

><p><em>AN: An ended I liked, but then never used:  
><em>  
>Yesterday, tomorrow, today she loves with a heart. She cried real tears. She spoke words that meant everything and mean nothing. She gets to touch the world, her Doctor.<p>

She is, was, will always be sexy.


End file.
